


Assimilation

by SilverConsular



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, Unfinished Tales - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bald main character, Beta position available, Brin has man pride, But also pretty, Elves are rude, F/M, Fall of Gondolin, Glorfindel is cool, I need a beta, I'm Sorry Tolkien, Language Barrier, Lung Cancer, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Not told by main character, Social class culture, The silmarillion is sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-01-08 19:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12260751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverConsular/pseuds/SilverConsular
Summary: Brin has been given an impossible task: to find the fair folk and convince them to heal a mysterious girl with a mysterious sickness.It is a suicide mission, with orcs patrolling every corner Morgoth's shadow touches, which is a large shadow.With war brewing, there may be more in store for him than just his task.And the girl? She speaks another language, she is very sick, and she keeps making his life more difficult than it needs to be. She's another thing entirely.





	1. Alteration

 

The girl had been found in the wild, a few days ride south of the grey mountains, where the forests were not yet dense. Siv had found her, shivering from the slight chill in the air, bare to the world, and on the brink of death.

As he strolled up the path, he had seen her at a distance and exclaimed, "What manner of creature is this!" He drew his knife, moving to investigate. "Oh! But 'tis not a creature! 'Tis but a woman, or as close to a woman as death can be!"

She had curled her legs and shoulders in the hope of preserving her modesty, but she couldn't hide her sickly pallor and frail demeanor. It seemed to Siv that she would blow away on the wind in a passing moment. With growing horror, he realized that he could count each of her individual ribs, and see the shadowed spaces between them. 

Hurriedly, the man shrugged of his cloak, offering it to her as he was taught to offer meat to a wild animal. But the woman's eyes barely acknowledged him, resigned to her fate. He was reminded of a time when he was a boy, when he watched Gerrett at his work. The man would tug a strong halibut from the water and set it on the ground next to him. As he watched, he would find amusement in watching the fish flop uselessly against the pavement, unable to do anything until it resigned itself to its fate. Its gills would pump uselessly for a few moments, then still. Here he was reminded of the fish, except this was not a fish, it was a woman.

Believing it the gentlemanly thing to do, Siv crept closer and wrapped the cloak around her shoulders. When the girl let out a small puff of air, he grew bolder and scooped her into his arms. "By grace, woman! you need to get some food in you! I shall have Sora prepare a most hearty meal--yes, I think that would be good--"

As if realizing what was happening, the woman loosed a small noise of protest at being moved from her place of solitude, but Siv carried on about meat-pies and warm milk without noticing. Too weak to move, or to say anything, the woman fell into a half sleep. 

Siv hummed a merry tune as he strut back down the trail to his mule, a hearty little thing, from which he had hung several bags of grains and fruit. He situated the girl over the horses neck, and settled himself onto the mule's back. The mule groaned under the weight, but complied to carrying them to the village, past hungry children looking for sweet red fruit, and to the little house on the hill. 

Sora was waiting for him out front, nursing Sulan.

"You have come home to us late." she accused, though her eyes were bright. It was a most joyous sight to Siv. 

"I came across a rather disturbing sight." replied he. "Oh, but all is well again!" Siv bounded off his mule and again situated the girl in his arms.

Sora pursed her lips. "What is this?"

Siv began to hang the bags over his arms, wanting to carry inside as much of the load as possible. "She is sick."

"It is dead already. Leave it in the stables and come inside."

"Nay, she is not dead, only hungry. You shall make a feast tonight and make her well again." As he spoke he strode past her and into the cabin and settled the girl on the table. His wife was breathing quite loudly behind him, which he found quite odd. He turned to her as she settled Sulan on his hip and began to sift through his bags.

"No! Do not do the cooking yet!" declared Siv, alarmed. "Poor lassie has nothing but my old cloak! Get 'er something--what of that dress you wore--"

"I will not have it ruined by filth." defied Sora. She set the baby into his startled hands. Sulan began to cry.

"Shh!" Siv kissed his son's forehead before turning to the girl. She was awake, of course, but only barely. Her eyelids flickered, but he could not see any sign of life or color in her face. Her eyes revealed nothing of her, nor their color. Her head was devoid of hair, except for her eyebrows. Her face may have been lovely to look at if not for her hallowed cheekbones and speckled nose.

"Were you witched by one of them faeries?" he asked. "Nasty blighters. I've heard the stories. The fair folk are as much a curse on this land as that dark lord.

His wife returned to him with a dress she'd wear when she'd muck out the stables. She shooed him out of the house, and that was the last he saw of the girl come morning.

Now the girl stayed in this house for four days and four nights without stirring or showing any sign of recovery. Siv was adamant that the girl should remain with them, but Sora thought the girl beyond all help. It was on the fourth night that the trouble began; when a boy tiptoed into Siv's fields, hoping to find a ripe morsel of corn to share with his two young sisters. They were starving, and the fields yielded a better chance of being undiscovered than the baker's shop.

As the boy reached for an ear of corn, he saw under the corner of his eye, a pail of milk sitting untouched by the barn with a sleeping milk-cow. 

"Surely they will not notice if I take a sip or two!" he thought to himself. But as he crept forward, he felt a sense of wrongness. He turned to the darkness of the orchards, but nothing was there. The bushes rustled. 

"The wind," he reasoned. "It is merely the wind."

But on the nape of his neck he felt a chill, and his heart thundered so loudly he thought the farmer would surely hear it from the comfort of his lovely house on the hill. 

"What have we here?" the voice took all the air from his lungs, and he jumped a foot in the air.

As he looked upon the face of the orc chieftain, he found that his terror had gagged him from speaking.

The chieftan twisted his lift and revealed sharp, yellowing teeth, capped with black and stained with blood, a gruesome impersonation of a smile. The orc pinched his cheeks between clawed fingers, examining him, and he saw more emerge from the thicket.

"We shall eat tonight!" the orc exclaimed, perhaps joyously, but orcs felt no joy nor happiness.

The others squabbled amongst themselves, and the others argued in their fiendish black tongue. He shuddered, shuffling to the side, but the chieftan held him fast.

"Finish your good work! And you may find yourself hearty meal!"

The boy found the breath to scream before it was taken away and was no more. And the girl heard him, and woke.

* * *

 

Sulan was crying, and Sora was shaking him frantically.

"Come look, husband! Your son needs you, and your pet has woken."

Groggily, he ran a hand over his face. His wife impatiently thrust a torch into his hand and struck it. Her stern face was illuminated, and he found himself rushing across the room to his son.

"Shh!" he said, but the boy kept fussing. "Shh!"

"Hoo ahr ihoo?"

He startled at seeing the girl, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, illuminated by the light of the torch. She coughed lightly.

"Ah! Bless you! The honored guest speaks! I knew you needed sustenance! Was I not right, Sora?"

The woman scowled at him from the bed, while the girl's brows drew in. "Hoo ahr ihoo?" she tried again.

"Oh! Do you speak the tongue of the north, then?"

She was silent, wondering.

"She doesn't want to speak, Siv." Sora snapped from the bed. "Be quiet. Come back to bed, now. Sulan is calm."

Siv handed the baby to her, then turned back to the girl, and the wooden chair they had settled her in. He gestured to it.

The girl stared at him.

He moved to fluff the blankets out.

The girl stared at him.

He held out a hand.

The girl stared at him.

Somewhat unsettled, he lowered his hand and stared back.

It started with a cough, then two, then she fell to her knees as she sucked in greedy breaths between hacks, expelling dark blood onto the earthen floor. Siv watched with growing horror.

"By grace, Siv!" moaned Sora into her pillow. "Get that thing to stop making such obnoxious sounds!"

He moved, and ran to fetch the healer.

 

**Hello everyone!**

**This is an idea that popped into my head a while ago, and I cannot get it out again, so here this is.**

**Your feedback would be much appreciated.**

**I also am looking for a beta reader for this story. If you are interested, comment below, or email silverqueen22638@gmail.com with a "sample beta" of a couple of lines from this chapter, and what you would like me to do in exchange. I'm looking for someone that can give me general feedback and have a general knowledge of the events of the fall of Gondolin.**


	2. Anticipation

It was a rather busy day today, and a sunny one, without a cloud in sight. Ahead of him, a pair of bustling children played in the dirt while their parents chatted a short distance away, complaining about what the lack of rain would do to the crop. A stoutly elderly man pointed out that this would not be such a problem if they lived in the fishing village some hundred kilometers south.

“Hey! You, boy!”

He shook his head in amazement, at the fact that Rhiann had still not learned his name, and carefully maneuvered himself off the straw roof of the hut he’d been sitting on. The angry healer was making good time weaving through poor Ereene and Ghenda, and he found himself laughing at their looks of distaste as he ducked behind the hut, and straight into the fields. Rhiann followed, but with a few clever tricks involving a hat and the local wildlife, the apothecary was successfully diverted. Now free of any pursuers or obligations, he strode onward towards freedom. 

In time he came across Siv’s cabbage garden, and here he halted, for (though it was burning hot) the leaves were wilted and yellow--not a cheery yellow, but rather the kind that he associated with things like urine, or Rhiann’s pasty medicines.

“Now here is a strange thing,” he thought to himself. “For I was here a mere two hours ago, and they looked perfectly healthy.”

As he looked around more, he saw that the rest of the fields looked rather sickly as well, and the heads of wheat were turned away from the sun.

His lips turned downward, and he stood there for what seemed a long while. The sound of yelling pulled him from his trance.

“Ah, the poor farmer and his wife have gotten into a spat!” he giggled gleefully. 

“I only ask for a week, beloved!” said the farmer.

“A week!” Sora shrieked. Grinning, he crept closer. He could never resist such gossip. “In a week, your son shall be sick from neglect. Your brother will be drowning in his sorrows.”

“Only if you choose to neglect your son as well,” retorted the farmer. “Leave my brother out of it. I am quite sure that Sulan and Suren can manage a week without me while I attend to the girl.”

“So there is a girl involved!” he mused, crouching beneath the farmer's window. “No wonder the wife is so angry.”

“The girl. Yes, let’s speak of  _ the girl! _ ” Sora’s voice was like dragon-fire. “ _ The girl, _ who is so sick, she can’t last two seconds without spitting blood on our floor.  _ The girl, _ who doesn’t speak right.  _ The girl,  _ who lacks the common decency to respect basic decorum. Yes, I see why  _ the girl _ is so important. I can not--”

“Enough,” said Siv, and suddenly the rambling stopped. He craned his ears closer to the window as the farmer’s voice grew softer. “I know...dissapointed...more...shall cast you out.”

“You shall what!” Sora exploded.

“You heard me.”

“For  _ the girl!” _

“For the girl.”

Sora humphed, then strolled out of the house in a rage. He heard a sigh.

“Let's get you cleaned up.” said the farmer. He jumped, for he thought that the farmer was talking to him. 

Then he heard a couple of coughs, and some shuffling. “Wahz shee ain-gree?”

“Oh yes!” said the farmer. “That food really was terrible, wasn’t it?”

The other occupant (the girl Sora complained of, he imagined), let out a puff of air, and he heard the sound of a wooden chair scraping over dirt. 

“Sit here!” Siv demanded cheerfully. “I’ll rub the oil the apothecary gave us on your head. Do you not want your hair to come back?”

“Eez sohmwon wahcheeng uhs?”

“That’s what I thought.”

The girl presumably sat, because he next heard the sound of the hands rubbing together. The ghastly smell of onions and goat-fat oil pierced his nose, and he winced. Rhiann had really outdone himself this time. 

Eventually, he tired of listening to Siv’s one-sided conversations, and the girl's strange dialect, so he quietly slinked behind the windows and into the field. 

 

“What were you doing out so late?” his father splashed the tunic he was holding in the sudsy water. Clumps of mud and grass stubbornly clung to the fabric. “You weren’t watching that girl--Tevette?”

“Vosette.” he corrected automatically as he shut the curtain. “And that was one time. I was watching some other people today.”

His father rose a sardonic eyebrow. “Brin.”

He stared back. “Father.”

There was silence for a moment, and he broke. “Fine. I watched her through the baker’s window, but that wasn’t for five minutes. I went to Siv’s.”

“Farmer Siv?” his father seemed speculative. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that sick girl, would it?”

“You know of her?”

“If you had been in the stables  _ like you were supposed to be,  _ you would have heard Rhiann grumbling about crackpot Siv’s impossible expectations.”

“Does she have that rash everyone came down with a couple summers ago? That would do it.”

His dad laughed. “Nay.” He sobered. “I saw her briefly when Siv brought her into town. It took me time to realize that she was alive, and she was hard to see as it was, mind you.”

“I was hearing her hacking a lot,” recalled Brin. “I do not think she can talk.”

His father hummed speculatively. “Curious.” He wrung the tunic, splattering scummed water everywhere, then held it out to him. “Stop being useless and hang this out the window, would you?”

He complied, observing with distant interest as some horses clopped by (this was more action than he’d see on an ordinary day). “Why don’t Siv let Rhiann take her?”

The elder man scoffed. “Rhiann has a whole village to look after. He doesn’t have time to waste on someone already dead!”

“Geremel?” he pondered, after draping the shirt over the sill. 

“You know Sora disowned him. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Brin shrugged. “Just a thought.”

His father sighed. “Enough of that. You should get to the stables and explain to Avon why you weren’t there to shovel them browners today.”

“But--”

The cottage was filled with a very shrill sound, and for a moment he thought that the winds had gone berserk.

“Stay here!” his father barked. He pulled aside the curtain, revealing a pair of very dirty little girls. They both were sobbing down their faces. Immediately, they launched at him.

“Whoa!” said Brin, good-naturedly.

The girls were both no taller than his waist, and as thin as reeds. After a day of playtime, their hair was matted and their faces were caked with dust. On a rainier day, they would be wet too, and the hems of their dresses would be dripping with goop. Enya and Amara were their names, and they lived in the little cottage with Brin and his father along with their older brother and three other families. They were inseparable. Enya, the eldest, could claim seven summers, and constantly reminded her younger sister (who was four summers) of this fact. Enya always translated Amara’s constant silences and led her around by the hand.

“Brin!” Enya sobbed. “They won’t let us see it!”

“Stay here, girls!” his father ordered.

“But--”

“You’ll see him soon.” said their father, ducking behind the curtain. Through the window, Brin saw him sprinting towards a gathering crowd. Amara clenched her arms around his leg.

“Galo-Galo!” Enya informed him.

Brin started. “What?” Galo was their older brother and his younger counterpart. He had spent much of his time teaching the younger boy how to sneak around the town, mostly so that he could find food for him and the girls. If something happened to him--no. They were under the protection of the house of Hador. They were safe.

And yet, he watched through the window as the mayor held up a single boot.

“A curse!” yelled Caen Carsonson, his whiskers twitching. “A curse on the one who cursed us! We will find who did this! Let there be justice for--”

Someone whispered in his ear.

“Galo!”

A crowd of men roared in agreement. The women watched in the back, clutching their children to their hips. 

“It was the girl!” he heard someone whisper. “A dark faerie curse. She’s brought it on us!”

For a moment, he wondered which girl and then noticed that a fair few people were attempting to discreetly point (and failing) at the shaking figure near the back. 

That was the first time he looked into the eyes of the girl, and while some called them the curse of the moon-folk, all he saw was confusion, fear, and submission.

**Thank you, everyone, for your support! For everyone who left kudos, have a virtual hug!**

**Also, if you are interested in being a beta, please leave a comment below, or email silverqueen22638@gmail.com.**

**-SilverConsular**


	3. Genesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap:  
> A man named Siv found a girl that didn't speak the common tongue. Everyone is panicked. Then an orc pack killed a boy named Galo and poisoned crops, and now everyone thinks that the girl has cursed the village.  
> Brin is awesome and has an adorable crush. 
> 
> The song lyrics in this chapter are mine, but they're meant to be cheerful and silly, not an absolute masterpiece, so cut me some slack.  
> Enjoy!

After Galo’s death, things grew steadily worse. They suffered the worst storm they had known since the days of mourning after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and yet the sky was full of clouds and in the nights the stars seemed to draw a great cloak of darkness over themselves. 

Then, a visiting merchant from Lord Tavan’s estate got the sickness. He did not cough blood, nor did he grow bald, but his stomach constantly seized, and his face seemed to blacken with each passing day. He died two days ago, along with one of the farmhands. Many of the greater villagers were either gravely ill or showing signs of illness. The only ones who remained unaffected were the servants. 

Even in the warmth of the stalls and hay, things were odd. The horses were ill at ease, and not even Star, Caen Carsonsson’s horse, would accept a sugarcube from Brin. 

Of course, there were whispers of the curse all around, and it was most obvious that it was the girl’s. Some believed her to be an agent of the dark lord, sent to wipe them out. Others believed her to be a victim of the elf-folk and their machinations, a source of blackmail to get them to fight in their wars. Brin, however, valued logic despite all expectations of him, and was skeptical of both theories. They were an obscure village of little strategic value, and none of their folk were skilled in battle, though he could admit to childish games involving the swinging-around of a large tree limb when he thought no one was watching (his father, of course, knew everything). But he was merely a servant, not like Rhiann’s daughters or Siv’s wife, or Caen Carsonsson, the mayor himself. He could only voice his ideas to those of his own rank, and even they thought he was mad.

He knew only that the fair Vosette had taken a liking to the girl--he’d often seen them on walks together, where the girl would babble a word in her odd toungue, and Vosette would laugh and try to guess what she was saying.

The horses were cold today, and their breath stained the air white. Brin shivered, and reached up to try and warm his ears. 

“I see you have decided to grace the stables with your presence today.” Said Geren. He was the son of Gerrett the horsemaster, a nuisance to everyone. He was two years his elder, and ever had a spark of mischief in his eyes. Any person with a shred of dignity would steer clear of his wild influences, as grown men would return to their wives with mud in their hair and grass in their boots. Brin enjoyed his company very much.

“Aye,” Brin replied. “I must admit I prefer the company of Stardancer to the ranting of his master.”

Geren smirked. “Any would prefer Stardancer, even if Mister Carsonsson were well mannered and spoke only when we wanted him to.”

Stardancer huffed, bowing his head as Brin began to discard the soiled straw in his stall. The horse was indeed the noblest of the group, and he knew it. Brin paused his work to give the stallion a quick pat on the nose.

“Ya’ found yourself the courage to speak to that lassie of yours?” said Geren. Brin stiffened slightly, and he tossed the next scoop of soiled hay into the pile rather hard. “Charm her with your special gifts? Gave her a roll in the hay, mayhaps? That why it’s so dirty?”

“No!” Brin’s ears were pink. 

“No?”

Brin let out a breath through his nose, which sounded much more like a kettle wheezing, than a sigh. “Geren,” he warned.

His friend paid him no mind.

“Geren,” he tried again. “This is different than Ara. She’s of higher station; she has the blood of a lord, albeit a minor lord, and she is Rhiann’s daughter. Rhiann possesses a deep loathing for me!”

“Ah, ‘tis the woes of love,” Geren chuckled.

“Vosette deserves the love of-of a king? No, not even a king! For even a king’s love would fall short.”

“To be so absolutely smitten!” Geren teased.

“Besides, I have not the ability to talk to her at present. She-she spends all of her time with Siv’s girl.”

As Brin protested, Geren had begun humming a tune that he had heard in the tavern earlier--one that Hayeli the minstrel often sang.

_ Oh, sweet lady fair and fair _

_ Come ride the wind with me, _

_ And come morning, there will be  _

_ sweet lilacs in your hair _

“--Geren--”

_ Across the river blue, _

_ I’ll bestow now unto you, _

_ The gifts that are deservéd _

_ Of a lady like you! _

“This isn’t--” Brin started, but the boy paid him no mind, 

_ Oh, ay diddle iddle um, _

_ Bestow the lassie’s kiss _

_ Ay diddle iddle um _

_ That night I fell in bliss _

Shaking his head, Brin began to dance with Geren, harmonizing. 

_ Oh, ay diddle iddle iddle um, _

_ I’ve fallen through the floor, _

_ And then come morning, _

_ My lady’s out the door! _

 

_ Oh, my lady like a bluebird _

_ Swift and agile too, _

_ I know this ‘cuz saw her _

_ Running without shoes _

 

_ And ‘ere the frosty winter _

_ Has frozen all the shores _

_ And all alone she enters _

_ To warmth that I unfurl _

 

_ Oh, ay diddle iddle um, _

_ My sweet lady’s embrace, _

_ Ay diddle iddle um, _

_ At night she’s full of grace! _

_ Oh ay diddle iddle iddle um, _

_ I’ve fallen through the floor, _

_ And then come morning, _

_ My lady’s out the door!  _

 

Geren continued, puffing out his chest and holding out a hand, changing his voice to mock his own. “Vosette, my lady! Bestow me a kiss and be agile like a bluebird!”

“Geren!” Brin was laughing with him. “Stop it, will you?”

There was a raspy scream, and they both fell silent, their cheer falling to melancholy within moments. From the town square, they could hear the sound of yelling and sobbing; a mob.

Brin tossed his shovel to the side, offering Stardancer a pat on the neck. Geren lept from the pile of hay he’d been standing on to close some of the stalls.

Where was his father? 

Brin darted from the warmth of the stables, and was in the commotion within seconds. 

Vosette--his lovely Vosette was the one screaming.

“No! She has done nothing wrong! See, she’s sick! My father can help her!”

Rhiann looked pained. “My child…”

The other girl didn’t make a sound, but by her face, she was terrified. The villagers looked upon her and spat in her face, and yelled for Vosette to release her hold on her arm.

How did it come to this? Why was it necessary?

“We must kill her! Let her curse take no more hold upon us!”

With strength, Caen Carsonsson wrenched the girl from Vosette’s grasp. 

The girl cried out, “Pleez! Aye Dihdent doo ehneetheeng!”

“Even now, she corrupts our lives with her foul tongue and incantations! Will we allow it?”

Everyone cheered to the contrary, even Siv, who had been at the girl’s side for days. Brin wanted to demand he do something, but he knew very well admitting to eavesdropping would not go well for him. His wife stood at his side, cradling her baby and smiling slightly.

The girl struggled against her restraints, hollering and sweating until she began to cough. She collapsed against the pyre, and her blood stained the rotting rowan bark beneath her. She didn’t even need to be burned. She was tearing herself apart already. And yet, the villagers circled her like a weaving of colorful vultures. In the corner of his eye, Brin could see a fat tear glisten down Vosette’s face, staining the dirt with salt. She was leaning against her father, though he did not seem to care much for her weeping. Brin didn’t want her to cry. He wanted her to smile; Vosette, so beautiful that when she laughed he could see in his mind's eye the bright yellow flowers that danced in the spring--the ones he would weave into her hair if he were so bold.

“Stop!” someone bellowed, and Brin was bewildered, because only an idiot would go against the wishes of Caen Carsonsson. The crowd crescendoed to a silence, staring, and his father’s grip on his shoulder suddenly strengthened. As the people suddenly began to turn and gawk openly at him, he realized that  _ he  _ was the idiot. 

“Come here, boy.” Carsonsson’s voice was the sound of death. He flinched. His father nudged him forward, and suddenly his feet trudged through the dirt, a battle march. The eyes of the people marched with him, and the hacking cough of the girl on the pyre became the drums of war.

“This boy.” Carsonsson’s voice was a whisper, then a yell. “This boy would have us do nothing to end the curse!” The mob suddenly let out a holler so loud that he hopped away. He saw Sora’s beady eyes upon him, and she held Sulan protectively to her chest as if he were an orc aiming an arrow directly at her child. Carsonsson smashed his cane into the ground, a declaration of war, and the mob turned to him. “Perhaps the girl has him under her spell!”

“Or perhaps you are being unreasonable.” the voice was so soft it was nearly a whisper, but it pierced the air and suddenly even the wind was silent. Derel’s footsteps were the only thing heard before the whole village started hollering at each other. Patiently, the man waited, crossing his arms and giving the crowd a look that would have rivaled Brin’s mother when she caught him stealing sweets. When being directed a look like that, Brin would have started sulking too.

“My lord!” greeted Carsonsson. “I did not know you would be arriving--”

“Mayor Carsonsson,” said Derel. His face was indeed lordly, his hair yellow and his eyes the color of the sky. His stature was strong, though slightly hunched, and his beard had some grey in it. “Did I not state it clearly in my letter that the matter of this girl would be left to my judgement? Am I not a respected emissary of the northern lords?”

“I-yes, my lord.” Carsonsson grovelled. “Very well. Yes, there she is.”

Derel glanced at the girl, who was hunched forward, blood oozing from her lips, but made no other move. “Mister Siv. You found her, did you not? Explain.”

The farmer nervously stepped forward and recounted all the details.

“Hmm.” said Derel. He strode towards the unconscious girl and grasped her chin, examining her from all angles. “I believe, Mayor Carsonsson, that execution is a most unwise path. Think of the good of the village!”

“But-my lord!”

“Are you questioning my judgement, Carsonsson?” asked Derel.

“N-no!”

“If I may speak, Lord Derel?” a voice interjected. Sora, clutching her babe to her bosom, strode forward, determined.

“Mistress Sora!” exclaimed the lord ebulliently. “It is always a pleasure to see you in a place such as this!”

“Likewise, my lord,” said Sora. “We believe this girl to have consorted with the dark forces of this land bringing this foul curse upon us. Or perhaps the fair folk sent her, for what foul purpose I cannot say.”

“Perhaps as incentive to aid them in their war,” Derel murmured. He turned to the boy next to him, who startled at the sudden change in direction. “You, boy! What is your name?”

He stuttered out, “Brin, sir-milord lordliness.” 

The man paid no mind to his slip, “this girl has brought upon us the involvement of a war we want no part of. You will deliver her back to the ones who must deal with this dark lord.”

He was bewildered. “Me? But-I’ve duties here, and-”

“I have decided,” said the lord, his voice low. “Do not question me and make me look a fool.” Louder, he exclaimed. “Let the fair folk deal with their own problems, and allow us to live in peace!”

The village cried in triumph.

When Brin glanced at Sora, she had very nearly flounced her way back to her husband and was currently cooing over her child. 

Very reluctantly, he nodded. 

He was to take the girl to the fair folk? The elves? But the elves had hidden cities, and they were not at all times the best of company. The lands were full of the wretched evils of morgoth, and his armies were ever watchful. To two travellers, one weak and one with little combat training? They would not survive an attack. And the girl’s sickness? It seemed as if she’d die choking on her own breath before he would even come close to finding even another village.

And what about Vosette? Who would watch over her?

The girl came to with a cough, not understanding what had transpired. Sighing, Brin took his knife and cut her loose. The village celebration became a blur as he started plotting.

“Waht hap-end?” she inquired as he caught her and swung her arm over his shoulder.

“Come on.” said he. “I’ll get you some food. Then, I have a journey to plan.”

And oh, did he have ideas. He didn’t plan on dying soon.


	4. Rogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last day in the village!  
> Then the good stuff can happen.

“Whay ihs ehvery-won angree?”

  
When the girl started spewing questions a million miles an hour, Vosette wished she could understand. She couldn’t imagine being lost with a language no one else spoke. It really was an intriguing tounge--soft in some way, and hard when it was apropriate, and she imagined she could guess the girl’s intent, if not her meaning.

  
“They will not give you blame for our troubles evermore, methinks.” she replied, though the comfort was useless and empty. The girl would likely be dead before the villagers realized their folly.

  
That boy, though, gave her hope. She had seen him sometimes--mere glimpses--sprinting o’er the rooftops. It was inevitable that she knew of him (their quaint little village was rather small after all), but mostly she knew of him by her father and his grumblings of a rougish boy unable to stay on time. His bravery in the courtyard had been admirable, however, and while it was more than likely would die with the girl, perhaps they would accomplish their task.

  
For her friend, she prayed it would be so.

  
“This was worn when my father took us to see the bloomingtide festival!” she twirled with the dress a couple times. It was a plain little thin, and too small for her now, but it was the finest thing she owned.

  
The girl smiled hesitantly, pointed to the fabric, and said “Greh”

  
Dutifully, Vosette provided another word. “Grey. Greh is grey.”

  
“Grey,” repeated the girl with solemnity. Vosette smiled at her as she folded the dress up and placed it reverently in the saddlebag. The girl protested, trying to pry the garment back out again, but she shut it and shook her head.

  
“No,” she told the girl, using one of the words she’d understand.

  
The girl struggled a moment, forming a sentence in her head. “Be...good.”

  
Vosette grinned, and shook her head. She would never wear that dress again, so she had no idea as to why the girl would not wear it. Her father would protest, of course, but the dress was not his to give.

  
This was not the first time they’d gone through this routine--days earlier, she had gifted the girl with an embroidered headscarf, before she realized that her time with her would be brief. The girl had protested, of course, and what Vosette could make of her speech was that she had nothing to give in turn. Then she insisted, and the girl had no other option but to accept it.

  
Vosette added a few medicinal herbs to the bag, and thought a moment. Perhaps she should instruct Brin on the brewing of the teas, when he came for the girl at last. The thought was sobering, and she threw down her things, turning to embrace her friend.

  
“Nai-oh-mee,” said the girl.

  
Vosette had never heard the girl say this word, and she said it with such reverence that she knew it held great importance to her. She stepped back to observe.

  
“Nay-eh-meh?” the word twisted, uncertain.

  
The girl hoarsely giggled, then pointed to herself. “Nai-oh-mee”

  
“Naomi?”

  
The girl grinned, and embraced her again. “Me...am...Naomi.”

  
Realizing what she had been told, Vosette replied, humbled, “Well met, Naomi.”

  
As Vosette spoke her last goodbyes to Naomi, her friend, the son of Bron set out on a different task, to the outskirts of even the farms, to a faint light beyond. The sun had long since set, and tomorrow he would be setting out for the world.

  
The light belonged to the home of Geremel, who was both revered and exiled by the village. His sister, Sora, pretended he didn’t exist, for she blamed him for the fall of their house and standing.The villagers allowed them to stay here, but they turned their noses up at him, and cursed Tîgeke as though it had been her alone that overran the house of Hador. Often, he found her putting her fists up to a tree, or a rock, for she was a warrior and felt she knew no other way to channel her anger.  
Their home was a cave, but somehow they managed to give it the warmth and love that the fortresses and towers of his youth possessed. A fire constantly crackled merrily in the cave’s center, next to which they had set their bedroll. The smoke drifted through the hole in the ceiling. On the walls hung their seldom used weapons dulled and dusty from time. Their only item of value, a painting of their son (who had long since left this place) hung in a place of honor over Tîgeke’s bow. Tîgeke was his wife, and she was an easterling woman, though only by name. She had known much conflict, and in the end questioned the value of killing the men of the west. She longed only for the adventures she’d had in her youth, which were long since gone. She would oft stare wistfully out the entrance while working bread dough to be put over the fire, and he would come up behind her and press a kiss to her cheek. She’d give him a reproving stare before giving in and allowing her lips to quirk ever so slightly. Though he had lost much, he was content.

  
“Master Geremel!” a voice whispered, and his wife reflexively was at his back, defensive. She held a torch to the fire, ready to burn the trespasser.

  
“Peace, my love,” he soothed. “It is merely young Brin. I see your sneaking has improved.”

  
The boy smiled proudly, but impatiently. “Have you heard ‘bout the girl?”

  
Geremel had not. He seldom participated in the gossip of the village, and he cared little for their squabbles.

  
“I assume this is about the yelling that woke us this morning?” Tîgeke inquired.

  
“Yes,” Brin explained. “The girl is very sick, and I have to find the fairies so they can fix her.”

  
Geremel’s teacup dropped from his hand, spilling chamomile all over the floor, but he paid it no mind. “Now why would you do that.”

  
“Lord Derel-”

  
“Ah. Speak no more on the matter,” his brows furrowed as his wife wrapped a blanket over the traveller. “Tell me, who is this girl you speak of?”

  
As he listened to Brin’s tale, his apprehension grew. The girl Brin described, the one without a name, seemed to him to be something of an enigma. Pale and sickly, yet her teeth were snowy white and straight, and her hands smooth and clean. It was of little wonder that she was suspected of conspiracy, though to whom he would be unsure. And yet-this strange language Brin described made him believe she was either unlearned or a very good actress. That Brin spoke out on her behalf drew the villager’s ire, and thus Derel must have seen fit to send him to his death alongside a problem he had no wish to deal with.

  
“I don’t want to die, sir,” the boy told him after the story, and though Brin would never admit it, he was crying. “Please, I need help!”

  
Geremel was already a step ahead. “Tîgeke, do we still have the maps?”

  
They did. They were hidden in a clay pot in the back. As his wife retrieved them, Geremel was fetching a pair of knives from their place on the wall.

  
“I cannot go in your place, I fear,” said the old man, “but I can give you the means to survive.” He dragged a stone over the blades in a practiced motion, ordering Brin to observe carefully. “Have you spoken to your father?”

  
Brin sighed, reluctant. “I came here shortly after I gave the girl into Rhiann’s care for the night.”

  
Geremel moved to the other knife, and Rhiann set the maps on the table, along with a pair of worn leather sheaths. “You will speak to him eventually?”

  
Brin’s face contorted, though he nodded. The old man was satisfied, and moved to strap the daggers to his son’s old belt. “There is no time for training, I am afraid, but I hope your skills in evasion will keep you from a fight.”

  
Brin nodded, observing the map, and the looping lines of writing. He traced them curiously. “What does this say?” he asked, tracing the lines at the top.

  
“Eriador,” replied Geremel.

  
“My people did not know much of the elves,” Tîgeke cut in, “but the raiders often--ah--ambushed them in these areas.” She etched three circles onto a map with skilled precision, as though she had done it many times. “Perhaps you should start your search there. Given your description the nameless one’s condition, you don’t have much time.”

  
Brin’s face shadowed, for the task was impossible.

  
“Have hope,” ordered Geremel, lifting his chin. “You, if not the girl, will reach the fair folk, and safety.”

  
Brin did not argue, though he disagreed. He wanted to stay here and continue his pursuit of Vosette, for she was more fair than any of the fair folk. Still, he strapped the daggers to his waist, and his eyes brightened at an idea.

  
“I’m going to get a horse, aren’t I?” he inquired.

  
Geremel smiled at his naivety. “I doubt they would give you one.”

  
Brin’s face fell, but he added something at the end, so softly that Brin wouldn’t have heard it had the fire’s crackling not stopped for a moment.

  
“...willingly.”

  
Brin grinned, and tackled him in a hug.

  
“Whoa, there, young master! Have mercy on a poor old man!”

  
“Thank you, Geremel,” the boy whispered, and moved to his wife. “Just so you know, Tîgeke, I respect you more than most of the barmy old rodents back at the village.”

  
“And I think you a reckless little boy with no sense of self preservation,” retorted his wife, and Brin gave her a genuine smile.  
They fussed over him a bit more--they likely would never see him again after all, and he would need supplies for his journey. Then they sent him off, wondering what his fate would be--and what fate had in store for them. These were dark times, after all.

  
And when, two nights later, a disgruntled guard searched around their home for the missing horse of Caen Carsonsson, Stardancer, he and Tîgeke shared a secret smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support!  
> I am so incredibly humbled by the kind words said about my work, and it gladens me immensely that it has such an impact.  
> I'll try not to dissapoint.


	5. Prowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brin and Naomi have begun their journey.  
> Brin is Brin.  
> Naomi is stubbon.
> 
> And then the leaders of the village have a meeting. There is a lot of yelling

Perhaps it was the wind, or Stardancer’s horse musk, that made it difficult for Naomi to breathe. Brin was frustrated, as her constant coughing fits slowed their progress greatly. She couldn’t sleep too close to their campfires, she needed constant attention, and though she tried to help, she was near useless. Brin felt as if he were carrying around a very needy sack of potatoes. More than once, he had contemplated leaving her behind and looking for the elves on his own, but then his mind conjured up Vosette, the disappointment on her face making his heart clench with woe.

  
They had followed along the river for days, and they would for several more until journeying south to the place Tîgeke had marked on his map. He would have to try his hand at hunting soon; the rations Geremel had given him (alongside some of the dried deer meat he’d acquired) were nearly out, and between himself and a sick girl, they’d go faster than Rhiann when he spotted Brin sitting on his roof.

  
When they settled to camp for one evening, in the forest, Brin for the first time found himself retrieving Geremel’s knives from the saddlebags. Stardancer gave a soft, pitiful nicker, nuzzling his pockets.

  
“Don’ worry, boy,” he told the stallion. “I can find somthin’ sweet for you. Meantime, I need you to look after Naomi, ‘ _right_?” He patted Stardancer’s neck.”

  
“You…” Naomi struggled for the right words.

  
“Hunting.” said Brin. He thought a moment, mimed drawing back a bow, then pointed at the food Naomi was eating. He grinned in achievement when a familiar spark of understanding appeared in the girl’s eyes.

  
“Hoon-tang,” she replied, and he laughed at her pronunciation before taking pity and correcting her. For some reason, Naomi moved to stand, but he pointed at the rock she’d been perched upon, and ordered “sit.” Naomi pouted, looking for all the world like a rejected wolf pup.

  
“Stay here,” he ordered, and Naomi huffed.

  
“ _Stay here_!” she parroted.

  
While her tone was rather sarcastic, Brin took this to mean she understood. He leaned over, patted her shoulder, then headed off deeper into the woods.

  
And promptly tripped over a tree root. He let out a string of curses he was ashamed to admit knowing, glad that he had at least travelled out of Naomi’s hearing range. She’d be babbling smug nonsense for days if she had witnessed that. He probably should have brought a torch with him--it was getting dark, after all.

  
Quite humbled, and with skinned knees, the hunter carried on with renewed determination, this time more wary and attempting to form some semblance of a plan. Apparently, he was directing more attention on ground and not enough on the sky, because an overhanging tree limb cuffed him over the head.

  
“You think yourself my mother, ya useless block of wood?” he yelled, frustrated. “I‘m tryin’ to--” And there it was: gloriously red and plump, hanging tantalizingly above his head. He craned his neck and spotted too more just within his field of vision. “Well, would’ya lookie here,” he whispered reverently. “Maybe not so useless, after all.”

  
He reached up and pulled, using the knife to cut the fruit lose. He eyed it wistfully for a moment before moving to haul himself up onto the first limb. The wind howled for a moment, and he had to steady himself as the whole forest seemed to rustle at once. He reached out, balancing slightly, and cut another apple lose. More rustling.

  
It was tedious work, but not ten minutes later he had over a dozen apples, a few scratches, and a wide grin. He dared not stray too far from the ground in the growing darkness, lest he miss a branch. Still, he mapped the tree in his mind so he could find it again come morning.

  
Now that he could see the shadow of sunset cast onto the dirt, he figured he should try to set a trap and head back to camp. He, in theory, knew how to set a trap. It would let him get back to camp faster, and they’d still get food.

  
Maybe.

  
Digging the hole had been tedious work, and by the time it was finished, the light had all but disappeared. Next came sharpening a few well chosen branches and settling them in the correct positions, making sure it worked correctly, positioning the bait. He was just wrapping the twine around the topmost branch when he started hearing the thicket behind him rustle.

He froze.

  
“Ahr ihoo--you...not...back.”

  
Naomi, he realized with a sigh, had found him.

  
“You should be back with Stardancer!” he exclaimed, jumping up, and the twine fell out of his lap and slowly unraveled.

  
“You...not back. Come? You come not back.” Naomi ignored him. He sighed. It had been a while, to be fair.

  
“Go back!” he ordered, his voice sharper. Naomi’s eyes widened, making her face look even more gaunt and pale than ever.  
He huffed, “I know ya understood that. Don’ stand there lookin’ like some abandoned--” She swayed on her feet, and he rushed forward. “Naomi!”

  
He let out a low string of curses, catching the girl before she could fall on her face. She coughed, a growl in her throat that threatened to devour her, once, twice. Weakly, she twitched her limbs. Sighing, he lay her on her side and began to gather his supplies. The trap was proficient enough, anyway.

  
As he began to see the light from their fire through the trees, Brin heard the startled whine of Stardancer.

  
“See what you’ve done?” he huffed at the girl on his shoulder. “You’ve scared poor--”

  
There was the distinct sound of a growl.

  
He settled Naomi against the nearest tree and ordered, “stay.” Starfire winnied again, and he was off.

  
The good news was, nothing was trying to eat his horse.

  
The bad news was that a bear, half starved but easily three times his size, was nosing its way through the saddlebags.

  
“Hey!” Brin yelled. The bear turned its muzzle to him and snarled when it saw the firelight glinting off of his knife.

  
Yelling at it, perhaps, had been a mistake.

  
In moments, the bear was on him. Blindly, he lurched his knife in front of him. Then he was flat on his back, winded. Breathing harshly and his heart pounding, he spared a glance upwards, only to wish he hadn’t as he saw the bear’s claws descending on him. He tried to roll, but the massive paw caught him in the arm with a sickening crunch, and the claws tore into his skin.

  
Then there was a smell of burning flesh, and the bear let out another roar, turning and charging in another direction.  
Bewildered, Brin turned to see what had caused the bear’s momentary distraction.

  
Naomi stood by the fire, with her headwrap covering her mouth and nose. It would have looked silly on any other occasion, but as she set another stick on fire and threw it at the bear, Brin couldn’t find it in himself to care.

  
At this point the bear was too much on fire to even move towards Naomi, which Brin observed with much relief. If that bear even touched her, he feared the girl would break.

  
In agony, the bear collapsed on the ground. Brin hoisted himself on his feet, wincing as his arm throbbed. His knife had been cast aside, and he retrieved it with a wince. The bear’s eyes showed nothing but failure and contempt. Swallowing, Brin stuck his knife into where the heart would be. There was a half-hearted yelp, then silence.

  
Stumbling away, Brin examined his arm.

  
Broken. And heavily bleeding from three deep scratches.

  
Naomi moved from the fire, coughing. Then she vomited her supper and some blood into a bush.

  
There was blood everywhere.

  
He had to get to the river. He had to survive. He had to find the elves. He had to-- _he had to_...

* * *

“That thing should have been killed!” Mr. Carsonsson informed them. He was still quite disgruntled that Brin had chosen to steal his prized stallion for his mission. He was oft heard in the tavern loudly proclaiming his story and garnering sympathy from those who would hear it. “With all due respect, my lord, you should order Constable Greyhound’s men to pursue them and set everything to rights.”

Constable Greyhound had been a long time friend of Caen, and thus was about to voice his agreement, when Lord Derel interrupted him.

“Peace, my friends.” he spoke, and the shouting in the hall fell silent. “It is unlikely that the young boy and the girl will survive long with so many enemies across the lands, and the fair folk are hidden well, so well that some believe them mere folktales. It would be a waste of our resources, and it would not be appealing to the other lords if we executed a stranger’s child.”

Caen’s face was turning a rather beautiful shade of purple, and Derel hid a self-satisfied smirk. Constable Greyhound looked between the two authorities, unsure whether to be pleased or angry. He settled for exclaiming a disinterested “aye.” Caen spared an annoyed glance at him, and his eyes widened, and he sulked much like a sad dog, a credit to his name.

“Master Rhiann, will you please deliver your report?” requested the Lord, ignoring Caen’s theatrics.

“Yes, milord,” the apothecary replied dutifully. “My daughters and I are doing what we can, but we have too many to take care of. Masters Rowan and Mistress Ygraine are both dead, and Mistress Ereene is distraugt, for all three of her sons have the curse. There are a total of fifteen sick, and many are close to the doors of death.”

During this report, Derel paced from one wall to the other. Greyhound found himself fascinated; the lord’s footsteps were even, and he always managed exactly five steps before pivoting on his dominant foot and repeating the feat on the opposite side. He counted this feat exactly three times before the lord turned perpendicular to his previous path, precisely in the center of the imaginary line he’d created on the floor. After the apothecary had finished speaking, Derel placed his hands behind his back.

“Constable Greyhound,” said Derel, and the man startled from his (rather important) musings.

“Hmm, yes, mister--ah--milord?”

“Your men will keep the sick under lock and key. We cannot afford it spreading further.”

The apothecary looked outraged, but resigned as Greyhound simpered “of course, your lordship.”

“You will look for a cure, apothecary.”

“If milord thinks it best.”

“Mayor Carsonsson, you will stop your pointless complaining, and run this town as is your most solemn duty, or so help me, I will promptly appoint your replacement.”

“Milord! But-” Caen cowered. “Yes, milord.”

They all stood in silence, listening to the faint hissing of fire from the torches.

“Well? What great happening do you expect as you stand there?”

They scattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented!  
> It is amazing to know that people are reading my work, and enjoying it. I am incredibly blessed to be able to write for all of you.  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!   
> Your support is always welcome and appreciated.


	6. Complication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story thus far:  
> Siv found Naomi, with nothing. His wife doesn't like her very much  
> Galo is attacked by Orcs, and everyone panics.  
> People are getting sick, and everyone panics.  
> People use Naomi as a scapegoat.  
> Brin volunteers to help Naomi to impress a girl  
> Brin tries to be a good adventurer, and gets in a fight with a bear.  
> Carsonsson is a jerk, and Lord Derel is a political opportunist.
> 
> In this chapter:  
> Vosette wants answers, Bron wants to be left alone, and Brin gathers his man pride. Naomi is Naomi.

Ereene had to be held back by the combined forces of Rhiann and her husband when they locked up her sons.

“You cannot do this!” she cried. “You promised they would get better!”

“I am sorry, Mistress Ereene,” Rhiann murmured over her cries. “But I have orders.”

Rhiann gestured for his daughters to close the door. His eldest, Evelen, obeyed without question, but the other hesitated.

“Vosette!” he reprimanded sharply.

“But--” she already knew she was on rocky ground with her father for her outspoken protests against Naomi’s exile. “Yes, father.”

The doors closed, encasing the sick within. Only Rhiann himself would be allowed in. Constable Greyhound gestured to his men, and they took their places by the doors. Ereene collapsed to her knees, sobbing, chanting “my sons” amidst her incoherent blubbering.

“Oh, silence yourself, you pathetic woman!” ordered Sora as she walked by. “You are embarrassing yourself!”

Vosette cast the woman a glare, but Sora was too much her elder for it to have any effect. Evelen put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Come on,” said her sister, steering her away. “Let us go take a turn about the town.”

Vosette sighed, but complied.

They were stopped by several of Evelen’s suitors along the way. They offered her flowers, ballads, or compliments of her beauty. Vosette trailed along, wishing Naomi were there, inquiring about the meaning of some word, or gesturing frantically to express her amusement at some particular happening. But Naomi could not be there, so Vosette said not a word as she followed behind her sister with her chin held high and her back held straight. 

At least, until they reached some of the more run down homes.

“You go ahead,” she told her sister. “I would like to talk to Mister Bron.”

Her sister raised an eyebrow. “Bron? You mean--”

“Yes.”

“Father will not approve.”

Vosette shrugged. “I would just like to talk.”

“You will be the one to tell father you went to the poor district alone.”

“I just want to talk.”

Her sister sighed, giving her a flippant gesture, and headed in the direction of the tavern. Vosette suspected Evelen intended to join in the nightly dancing and merriment. She stared after her for a moment before turning on her heal.

The place was quiet, a drastic change from when she’d been here last. Normally, she would be able to hear the laughter of children playing, or the women discussing the latest gossip. Now, if she saw anyone out of their homes, their heads were downturned, and their expressions were heavy. They were all mourning the death of one boy, and awaiting notice of the death of another. It was this, along with the war, that brought this shadow upon them.

Rasha, a beggar, stood by one of the houses. Vosette extracted a silver coin from her sack. “Where might I find Mister Bron?”   
Rasha smiled, revealing her blackened teeth, and pointed.

The home, she realized, had no proper door, but a thin curtain, and it was smaller than she had expected. When she rapped lightly on the doorframe, she winced as she obtained a small splinter. 

“Hello?” she whispered hesitantly. The curtain shifted, but didn’t open.

“Who are you?” 

Looking down, Vosette met the gaze of a small girl, no older than five summers. She smiled. 

“Hello, little one. Can you tell me where mister Bron is?”

“Leave.” a man’s voice boomed. The little girl jumped.

“I just want to talk.” said Vosette. The little girl blinked at her.

“I’m ‘mara,” said she. “You’re really pretty.”

Vosette blushed, then crouched down. The girl had these beautiful grey eyes that seemed to pierce her heart. Her dark hair was matted, and full of dirt, and Vosette saw that her dress barely preserved the girl’s modesty.

“Hello Mara,” she greeted. “I am Vosette. You are very pretty as well.” 

The girl beamed. “Ennie! ‘ster Bron!”

“No, Amara,” said Bron. The curtain was pulled back, revealing Bron, and another girl slightly older than little Mara.

“Hello, sir,” said Vosette, hesitantly smiling. “I am--”

“I know very well who you are, Rhiannsdotter.” Bron crossed his arms. “What do you want?”

“I--” Vosette stuttered. “Naomi was my friend, and--”

“Ah.” The curtain was yanked back into place, and Bron muttered as if she couldn’t hear him behind it. “Stupid girl thinks ‘cause my son is out there, I know where he is.”

“You and your son help out in the stables, right?” Vosette decided that if he wouldn’t let her in, she would converse with the curtain. Mara slipped out and hugged her leg. She smiled at the girl. “Did you notice anything...unusual with the horses when Naomi came?”

The only answer was some quiet muffling and the high pitched conversation of the two girls.

“I dunno if you know this, but my father is panicking--all of us are panicking. And no one can tell me what is really going on! Your son and Naomi are out there, and in danger, and people are dying. You are probably one of the only people in this village that cares what happens to them--

The curtain was drawn back. “And what, exactly, d’ya wan’ me to do?”

Vosette grinned at him. “I need help investigating the source of the curse.”

“Ain’t your father doin’ that?” Bron gestured her to come inside. Mara and her sister followed on her heels, their hands moving with fascination through her hair.

“My father has been ordered to quarantine all the sick, and only to continue his surgical services for the time being.”

“So our good lord is settin’ up his game, huh?”

Vosette had never heard Lord Derel spoken of this way.

“Ah, I suppose Lord Derel can be…nevermind.” Vosette was unsure what she could say of the lord that Bron could approve of. “I am not my sister, and as I am young, my opinions and desires hold no weight at all. I need...people...that can help me figure out what is going on here.”

“And ya think I can figure it out?” Bron snorted. Mara had begun to doze off on her lap, and Enya tugged the girl out of Vosette’s arms to rouse her. 

“I think you can help me find people who can,” Vosette responded. “I only spoke with your son briefly, but he told me more of the inner workings of this village than I have ever known. I inferred that you might have that same knowledge.”

Bron considered this. “What’s your goal, young lady?”

“Set everything right,” Vosette replied. 

Bron took a swig from his tankard. “Alright,” said he. “I’ll get'ya your people. But don’t expect nothin’ else.”

“Thank you,” Vosette smiled, relieved. “Do you think you can get sompe to meet me this time on the morrow?”

“Ya think me an amateur?”

* * *

 

He shivered. And shivered some more. Everything had become the blissful silence of the roaring winds of winter: a torturous cold. He didn’t want to move.

Someone adjusted a blanket around him, and pressed something even cooler to his forehead. His arm twinged, feeling as though someone had pricked it multiple times with a needle. He couldn’t move it, he realized, and his eyes snapped open, attempting to stand, but only tangling in a mass of sweat, blood, and boy.

The fire crackled happily nearby, and the aroma of burning meat hit his nostrils. By his side, Naomi sat, her scarf pulled over her mouth and nose to keep her from inhaling too much smoke. Her eyes were half closed, and it looked like she had been fighting the lull of sleep for a while. She jumped up, babbling, and punctuating herself with a relieved inflection.

“What--” his throat felt as though someone had poured salt down his throat. “What happened?”

Naomi, of course, didn’t understand the words, and she frowned. Frustrated, Brin sighed. He tried to lift his arms, and his right hand spasmed in pain. 

“Agh!” he cried, holding back tears and cradling the arm. It had been wrapped tightly, but he could see the blood seeping through the cloth.

It seemed that Naomi had taken one of the shirts he’d brought with and transformed it into an impromptu bandage. Even so, the sling would only hold for so long, and they would have to find a healer soon if he did not wish to lose his arm.  
Naomi held a bowl to his lips, and he drank greedily, sighing in relief when cold water washed down and soothed his parched throat. Naomi coughed slightly, spilling a bit of the liquid into his lap.

“Sah-ree!” she exclaimed, her voice muffled by her scarf. The girl stood suddenly.

One of his knives sat on the ground beside her, cleaner than he remembered seeing it last. The corpse of the bear lay in a mess of fur behind her. It looked as if she had tried to skin it, but instead took a chunk out of the shoulder. He grimaced as he spotted sinew and bone.

She was currently cooking some of the meat over the fire, and while it would most definitely be a bit burnt, Brin admired her determination. That she had managed such things was a mark of her enterprising nature.

By the light, Brin estimated that it was early morning, and they should be leaving soon. But it didn’t seem that Naomi had slept at all, and he would have to take the time to get as much meat from the corpse of the bear as he could. Groaning, he sat up, wincing as his shoulder twinged. Standing proved a difficult task, and more difficult when a frantic girl kept pushing him back down. 

Naomi had done well to gather some of meat from the bear, burnt as it was, and if they rationed it, they’d have food for a week.

“We should not stay here,” said Brin, wincing as he felt his tongue grate against the back of his throat.

“You…sit,” Naomi pointed stubbornly, but Brin was already moving to stomp out the fire. He pointed to the bear meat, then to Stardancer.

“Can you get this in one of the sacks?” 

It wasn’t a question, it was an order. Naomi huffed, and complied.

It was difficult, but Brin managed to retrieve his map from the sack. They would have another three days before they reached their destination, and likely several more. Given the worsening of Naomi’s strange coughing fits, and the state of his arm, they needed to find a healer soon. Oh, if only those faeries were not so difficult to find! In his mind he felt his loathing of them grow, and his heart turned sour at the thought of interacting with them. This wasn’t his war! His heart was with Vosette, back at his village, and he wished, oh he wished, that he had stayed silent that fateful day.

As they rode that day, the pain in his arm worsened, and Naomi made them stop frequently to douse the wound with water and rewrap his bandages, and to settle the occasional coughing fit. He began to feel light-headed, and he wondered, not for the first time, if they should have stayed at their camp that day. 

As the sun began to set, Naomi stopped him again, but instead of dismounting, she whispered “Waht ahr theh?”

Brin dizzily followed her finger. For a moment he didn’t know what they were looking at.

Then he did know what they were looking at, and his heart pounded him into a sharp clarity.

Across the river, he could hear the rough cadence of Black speech. Standing against the horizon, seeming to blot out the sun, were the dark banners of Mordor. 

He steered Stardancer into the thicket, cantering into the forest. They would not rest tonight.

“Waht ahr theh?” Naomi asked again.

“Orcs,” answered Brin, wincing. As the girl churned the new word into her mouth, Brin was overcome with a sense of dread.   
They needed to find the elves.

They were going to die.


	7. Consternation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story so far:   
> Naomi arrives at the village, very sick.  
> People want to kill her because they think she's cursed.  
> Brin stands up for her and ends up involuntarily volunteering to take her to the elves in the middle of a war zone. This is really just a death sentence without stating properly it's a death sentence.  
> Naomi is learning to speak common.  
> After Brin and Naomi leave, Vosette starts investigating the real cause of the recent sickness and deaths. She allies with Bron, Brin's father.  
> Brin gets attacked by a bear, gets his arm broken, and Naomi throws fire at it. Then orcs appear on the other side of the river, and they flee.

_ Badum dum dum ba dum dum dum. _

No matter how hard they rode, the fires of the orcs seemed to only draw closer. Brin’s arm throbbed. Naomi coughed. His eyes were heavy, but his heart had lept to his throat and persisted in the thundering rhythm of his fearful mind and of Stardancer’s hooves.

_ Badum dum dum badum dum dum. _

Past the apple tree, they rode, and behind they left the incomplete rabbit trap, and the warmth of a good fire. Now, the night had a chill, and the torches of the monsters behind them were too hot, even from a distance, for they had a fire that filled the soul with the dread of darkness to come. Their fell voices seemed to stretch out like the branches of an old oak tree, searching listlessly with long and spindly fingers. Stardancer felt his urgency and whinnied nervously before he was shushed by an anxious Brin.

Naomi hung limply from the horse, her breaths halted wheezes now. More than once, she passed out against his back and started drooling.

It was deep into the night when the horse and the two disgruntled riders came upon a shallow stream. Stardancer’s breaths quickened, and Brin could tell from his slowing pace that the horse hoped to stop and rest. But they could not, and Stardancer only received a small drink before Brin steered him away, and the sound of rushing water soon faded to distant memory. It was shortly before dawn when Stardancer finally slowed, refusing to go further. Taking pity on him, Brin led the horse into the dense foliage of a thicket. It was here, he realized, that they had come upon company.

There stood a man in their clearing, his eyes startled behind a shining helm, and his fingers inches from a fallen tree branch, presumably to be used for firewood. And he stood tall without slouching, and it seemed that a great light shone about him, both lovely and terrible.

And Brin was afraid, and thought the man an apparition of some vengeful spirit, come to take them to the orcs. Spooked, he turned Stardancer, and they galloped back the way they came. Naomi voiced incoherent confusion in between coughs as the man’s voice echoed behind them on the wind.

The man might have tried to chase after them, but he stood no chance of catching them on foot. He may have been an injured rider, but he still was a fast rider.

They finally rested mid-morning, when Naomi insisted she change his bandages. The throbbing had grown worse over the night, and Brin felt as though Rhiann’s cat had latched onto his arm, claws extended, and stayed the duration of the night. Naomi’s nagging hadn’t helped. The girl insisted she take first watch, despite the fact it was clear she needed rest more than 

he--indeed, the scratching sound she made in her throat made him nervous, and if not for the present threats, he would have gone searching for something that might aid her.

Still, he wouldn’t complain when the girl helped him against a tree so she could tend to his wounds. 

For a moment, he could imagine that he was with Vosette, and she was smiling sweetly at him as she tended a wound from a nasty fall. Ah, but if it was only Vosette here with him to ease these unhappy times. For now, he could only dream of her.

“Wahts hapehneeng?” Naomi seemed to be talking to herself, so Brin made no effort to answer. After his arm was wrapped again, she prodded his arm, and he winced. Naomi frowned. Suddenly breathing heavy, and her face angry, the girl shouted at the sky. “Waht doo ai doo? Ai dohnt uhn-uhndurstand!”

And then the girl sank to her knees started crying for no apparent reason, and Brin was at a loss. He had no knowledge of dealing with crying women--his mother had died when he was very young, and Galo had always been the one to deal with his sisters when they were upset. 

“There, there,” he murmured quietly, unadroitly patting her own shoulder with his good hand. Naomi kept blubbering, and Brin concluded he was useless at this. “Naomi? Somthin’ wrong?”

Naomi shook her head, stumbling for the words. “N-no...know?” She sniffled, then coughed, her face contorting in pain. Snot dribbled down her chin, and she wiped it with her sleeve. She appeared to be trying to stop herself from crying but apparently didn’t succeed. She bit lightly on her hand, trying to muffle the noise of her pitiful sobs. Then she keeled over and started a coughing fit, and the tears came for a different reason.

Brin knew something of how to deal with this, so he used the tree to help himself onto his feet, and busied himself with making Naomi’s tea. A cold breeze drifted through the forest, and he shivered. A fallen leaf brushed his cheek.

When he nearly dropped the kettle, Naomi moved to help him.

They were unable to stay longer than those few minutes, as the orcs drew ever nearer. Brin checked his maps, and was relieved to see that they were drawing closer to the marked valley. He hoped that they would at least survive long enough to see it.

 

* * *

 

 

The greatest thing you can do when you hold the fate of the world in your hands is to act. Tuor had never been one for idling through his life, and as a mortal, he thought idling would be a waste of time. So when a horse broke through the greenery, and a boy made eye contact with him, and then flew from him, terrified, he was startled for only a moment before he acted.

“Halt!” he shouted, but to no avail. As he stumbled the few steps forward to where the horse had been but moments before, he recalled two things: that the rider had been carrying a 

sack, and that the rider had been bleeding. Growling, he drew his sword and passed quickly out of the underbrush. 

Immediately, he knew the cause of what had startled the poor boy and caused his flight.

The servants of Morgoth marched through the forest. From his place, he could spot the faint light of their torches, and catch the mumblings of their foul language. He had expected such a thing ever since they had come upon the ruins of Nargothrond. It seemed that ruin was coming to Doriath, and it was only a matter of time before it fell completely.

Voronwe had undoubtedly felt the changes in the air, and seen something of what had transpired, for he had readied himself for travel, and gazed eerily in the direction of the trees.

“Hail,  _ mellon nin, _ ” Tuor greeted. 

And Voronwe responded, “ _ Alla _ .”

Without needing explanation, the two friends set out again on their journey.

Tuor inquired of Voronwe the distance they were away from the orcs.

“They come on their wargs and run swiftly. Now they are a league away, but I fear they shall overcome us on foot.” Voronwe was worried, so Tuor worried as well.

“I believe I encountered one of my kin, or at least a wandering innocent, whilst I gathered wood for the fire. What know you of him?”

Voronwe smiled sadly. “Nay, I only saw a boy and his horse fleeing from the oncoming dangers. I no naught where he flees, or what his purpose is.”

“He was injured.” 

Voronwe seemed concerned at this, but unsurprised. “What a sad omen. With Nargothrond fallen, the lands have grown dangerous as of late.”

Tuor grew speculative. “Does he head into danger?:

Voronwe nodded his eyes turning grim. “I fear he shall face peril, and suffer greatly, before the end.” Then the elf sent his blessings to the boy in the tongue of the elves, which Tuor understood to mean something akin to “may your horse be swift, young one, and your hopes be bright.”

Then the elf drew up his weaponry and continued to lead Tuor by a shadowed road, drawing ever closer to the hidden city. And yet, neither man forgot the plight of the strange boy, and never ceased to wonder of his errand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support! It is incredible to wake up every day and see your kind words!  
> I hope you all are enjoying the story.  
> On a side note, I still need a beta, so if you're interested, let me know.


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